


Encircled

by AriAllwyn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:40:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27560152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriAllwyn/pseuds/AriAllwyn
Summary: Harry is back for his eighth year at Hogwarts after the war, struggling to deal with the nightmares that destroy his sleep and threaten his sanity....until he finds comfort from an entirely unexpected source.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	1. Struggling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is back for his eighth year at Hogwarts after the war, struggling to deal with the nightmares that destroy his sleep and threaten his sanity....until he finds comfort from an entirely unexpected source.

He could handle his life now, Harry thought dully, if only he could sleep.

Voldemort was defeated, the wrenching funerals were over, he was back at Hogwarts with his two best friends, the castle kept the intrusive press firmly at bay, and he’d gained back the weight he’d lost that frantic year on the run.

He was even still friends with Ginny after their painful breakup. Well, sort-of.

But the nightmares were ever-present, seemingly starting the moment he fell asleep. And they felt so damned real, like he was actually there again. In the graveyard grabbing Cedric’s body as he dodged the deadly curses. In the basement of Malfoy Manor, ears ringing with Hermione’s tortured screams. In the Ministry of Magic, heart clenched in horror as he watched Sirius fall through the veil. On the tower, muscles straining desperately to move, as he saw Dumbledore hit with the flash of Avada Kedavra.

He would wake up gasping furiously, heart racing, eyes bulging with terror, hands grabbing for his wand…until he realized his torment came from nightmares, nothing more. 

And then he would sink back down upon his bed to lie, staring into the darkness, until morning. To rise and stumble, exhausted, through another day.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Hermione called it. PTSD. When Harry wondered aloud why he seemed so much worse than his friends, she reminded him that she had had loving parents throughout her childhood, and that Ron had a close family to help him absorb his bitter grief over Fred. Those sorts of constants, she explained, blunted the impact of the most severe trauma, making it survivable. 

Whereas he had lost his parents as a child, grown up in a loveless home, made strong emotional connections with Sirius and Dumbledore only to helplessly watched them die….oh yes, and then walked slowly to his own death.

And when Hermione pointed that out, Harry suddenly remembered Lupin telling him that the dementors frightened him more than his classmates because he had more trauma in his past. And he wondered bitterly if he’d ever have a day again where he actually enjoyed living, instead of just going through the motions half-asleep. Hermione had looked at him, eyes soft with concern, and told him it would take time.

Which he had now. In spades. But nothing stopped the nightmares, or the anxious sleeplessness that trailed in their wake. He felt like Sisyphus pushing the stone uphill, and then watching it tumble back down.

In a fit of reckless overtiredness about a month after Fred’s graveside service, he’d decided to throw money at the problem. So he’d taken large suitcase of galleons out of his vault and splurged on a Charger X 2005, the fastest new broom on the market. After only a second’s hesitation, he’d purchased one for Ron as well, and Ginny. And because he didn’t want to leave out the other people he loved, he’d bought lavishly for them, too: a first edition of Hogwarts: A History for Hermione, with a butter-soft leather binding and quizzes that magically appeared in the air after every few paragraphs; an emerald bracelet for Molly; a rich onyx nameplate for Arthur’s desk at the ministry; a gold dirigible plum necklace for Luna; and a complete set of The Illustrated Herbology Compendium, Volumes 1-25 for Neville. He’d even found a great present for Teddy---a magical stuffed owl that flew the length of a quidditch pitch and then circled back around to nibble treats out of your hand.

They had all been pleased with the extravagant gifts, and it did his heart good to see Molly finger the glittering circlet with a smile on her wan face. Even Hermione had flipped eagerly to her book’s first quiz after she’d tutted about the expense. Best of all, he’d had a long, rousing game of two-against-one quidditch with Ginny and Ron, falling into bed at the Burrow with a satisfying, bone-deep exhaustion, hoping against hope….

….and he’d woken just after midnight, clutching his throat in terror, sure he was being strangled by a giant Inferi sporting Peter Pettigrew’s silver hand.

“It’ll be better once we get to Hogwarts, mate; you’ll see,” Ron had said encouragingly, as they’d said good-bye at the first apparition point for his and Hermione’s trip to Australia.

“I know,” Harry tried to say brightly through a yawn as he hugged Hermione tightly. “Take care, yeah? I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to stay at Grimmauld Place while we’re gone, Harry?” Hermione had asked worriedly. “I know you and Ginny are…” she paused “struggling, but with your night terrors, being alone in that big house…”

“I’ll be fine, Hermione,” Harry had said firmly. “You go take care of your parents, ok? Don’t worry about me.”

But he hadn’t been fine, only substituted his horrific visions with others equally unsettling. He’d thought leaving the Burrow for awhile might take Fred out of his head. But Fred had appeared every night in dreams at Grimmauld Place, sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed, arguing earnestly about why he really shouldn’t have had to die. And Harry honestly hadn’t known what was worse, waking to terror or waking to swamping grief.

Either way, he’d gotten zero sleep.

It had almost been a relief to get back to the Burrow to see a triumphant, contented Ron. Hermione had succeeded. She’d returned her parents’ memories and was staying with them for the rest of the summer.

“Bloody touching it was too, mate,” Ron said solemnly, as they lay in their small beds in Ron’s room. “That look on her face, so desperate as she whispered the spell, and then her Mom just blinking her eyes and saying “Hermione?” and her Dad saying “Hello, darling,” like he’d just seen her a week ago. Of course, Hermione just burst in tears and hugged them and kept saying “Mom and Dad” over and over, and I almost started crying myself. ‘Course there was some explaining to do, mind you, them being in Australia and all. But it’ll be okay. She sends her love and says she’ll meet us at Platform 9 and ¾ next month.”

Harry had smiled happily, picturing the scene, until Ron said:

“And what about Ginny, yeah?”

His smile had vanished. He’d seen very little of Ginny. She’d said a brief hello upon his return, then gone back outside to continue practicing quidditch drills, over and over, late into the evening.

“What about Ginny?” he’d asked defensively.

“She told Mom and Dad today she’s not going back to Hogwarts. Has a tryout with the Harpies next week. Mom’s fair upset about it, but you know Ginny. Once she sets her mind on something…”

“Oh….yeah,” Harry had stammered. “She’ll be brilliant. She’s better than their second string Chasers. She’s almost as good as Weston now.”

Ron had sat up and Harry could feel his eyes searching in the darkness.

“I thought you and she…” he had started.

“I’m just not ready, Ron,” Harry had blurted out. “I told her she deserves better. I’m a mess. Can’t sleep. Always beat. Snapping at everybody all the time. I feel like I’m coming out of my skin.”

“She’d wait,” Ron had said softly.

“I know she would,” Harry had almost snapped, because he’d had this same miserable conversation with Ginny the day before. “But I need to get myself straightened out. I don’t want her to put her life on hold. She says she’ll finish school by correspondence, and you know she’ll do it. I just…..can’t right now.”

“It’ll be better at Hogwarts, mate,” Ron had said again, lying back down. He’d fallen asleep almost immediately, snoring softly. Harry had tossed and turned, finally drifting off, and then awakened digging at his sheets with determined fingers, like he was digging a grave. 

Dobby’s death was one of the worst nightmares of all.

And it HAD been better, at first, headed back to Hogwarts. He’d felt happy, hugging a glowing Hermione at the station, avoiding the crowds and cameras, slipping into an empty compartment with his best friends and dozing lightly all the way to Scotland. His contentment had lasted through meeting up with Neville, Luna, Seamus and Dean, stuffing himself at the Welcome Feast, and watching tiny first-years be Sorted.

Maybe everything would straighten out here, he thought hopefully. He glanced over at the Slytherin table, half-expecting to see Malfoy scowling at him. But the end of the table was empty. No eighth-year Slytherins had returned, it seemed. Well, bloody good. Maybe he’d have a peaceful year for once.

Still, he was glad he’d owled McGonagall before arriving, because she’s done just as he’d asked. He had a room to himself and could scream and flail all night if he needed to. No need to worry about waking the others. His old roommates—especially Ron---had protested loudly, but Harry was adamant. They needed their rest.

And when the nightmares made their typical, terrifying appearance again that night, he was glad he’d held his ground.

So here he was. Scared stiff and heart pounding, shivering awake, leaning out of his bed as he watched Hedwig falling, falling… 

Harry righted himself and kicked his feet in angry frustration. Classes started tomorrow and he had a bear of a schedule…double potions, double transfiguration, astronomy and DADA. Ron and Hermione had the same classes, since they’d missed the whole year too, but Hermione was a study fiend and Ron would be facing his schedule on a full night’s sleep. 

What good would it do to sit for his NEWTS if he was too sleep-deprived to complete the required coursework?

Suddenly, he laughed out loud. This was Hogwarts. His home. He wasn’t in Ottery St. Catchpole, or London, he was in the Scottish wilds in a magical castle. He didn’t have to thrash about in his bed, sleepless,

He could fly.

The thought had barely taken hold when he was out of bed, grabbing his Charger X 2005, and heading for the window. Who would stop him? He paused to shove his feet into his trainers and leaned up to open the sash. A light breeze played softly over his face as he stared out at a star-strewn heavens. He mounted his broom, aimed for the sky and kicked off.

Seconds later, he was circling the Astronomy Tower and shouting for joy, his hair whipping back as he accelerated. He was still tired, but the lethargy had vanished. Harry dove, spiraling, toward the Whomping Willow, over the spot where he and Ron had landed Arthur’s flying car so many years go. He pulled up sharply to avoid the waving fronds, climbing, climbing, and then sped down like a bullet into a Wronski Feint. Manuever completed, he began ascending again in dizzying spirals, endless spirals.

Finally, Harry leveled off and stared in fascination at the castle below him. Soft beams of magical light backlit the castle, playing over its ancient surface. The Forbidden Forest stretched to the north. He could see the lights of Hogsmeade, twinkling in the distance, and the long, dark oval of the lake to his immediate left. At its far shore, glimmering serenely in the starlight, was Dumbledore’s tomb. Harry swallowed, throat suddenly tight, and swerved to the left to change his field of vision. His stinging eyes made out the courtyard and beyond it, the quidditch pitch.

Wait…was that a wandlight? A tiny orb flickered as it moved sedately around the pitch, steadily drawing closer to the nearer hoops. Curious, Harry turned his broom and headed over.

When he got closer, a lone figure on a broom emerged from the darkness, straining forward until his chest was almost parallel with the broom handle. He must be on one of the school’s old Cleansweeps, Harry thought, watching the person’s sluggish progress. One of the brooms they used to train the First Years. Every year, the Cleansweeps lost more power, til they could barely be used. This one was just about ready to be consigned to the scrap heap, although the figure was nearly throwing his back out to get a bit more speed. Poor sod.

Well, Harry had plenty of money in his vault back at Gringotts. At Christmas break, he’d get out a bunch of galleons and give them to Professor McGonnagall. She could buy new brooms for the school. Nobody should have to work that hard to fly that slow.

Harry pulled up thirty yards away and hovered. It was a boy, he saw. With dark hair. Something about the figure seemed familiar….

Until the boy reached up and pulled off a dark cap, running his hand through his hair. Fine strands shimmered like gold through the wandlight, and Harry gasped.

It was Draco Malfoy.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry could tell the exact moment Malfoy spotted him. He looked away immediately, but straightened until his back was ramrod stiff. The Cleansweep slowed even further.

Harry pulled alongside his former, bitter enemy, biting his lip to keep from laughing. Really, Malfoy looked ridiculous, riding sedately on a broom that was turtle-slow.

“Hey, Malfoy,” he said.

Malfoy’s lips barely moved.

“Potter,” he said stiffly.

“Where’s your Firebolt?” Harry asked curiously.

“Gone,” Malfoy muttered tersely, still not looking at Harry.

“Gone?” echoed Harry. “Gone where?”

“Reparations.”

Oh. So that’s why he was riding such a substandard broom. Harry had a brief memory of Malfoy zooming past him in a quidditch game a century ago, his hair whipping back in the wind. He’d been confident and lightning-fast.

Harry was surprised by a small, sudden pang of regret. He deserves this, he thought savagely, flinging the thought away. He tried to kill Dumbledore. He almost killed Ron and Katie. Still, something kept him from hurtling the words.

“Er…I didn’t see you at the feast,” Harry said.

“I wasn’t there,” Malfoy said shortly.

“Obviously…why not?”

“I came late.”

“So…you’re going to be here? For eighth year, then?”

“Yes.”

Harry sat back on his broom, studying the rigid figure.

“You don’t look very happy about it.”

Malfoy threw him a look of utter disbelief, then shifted his eyes away again.

“I’m not.”

“Look Malfoy, I’m trying to be friendly here,” Harry said, exasperated. “Can you talk in sentences longer than two words?”

“No.”

“Okay, I give up…why not?”

Malfoy halted the Cleansweep, which juddered, throwing him slightly off-balance, as he did a slow turn to face Harry. 

“I’m being civil to the person who spoke for my mother and I at the trials.” His enunciation was crystal clear.

Harry grinned.

“Barely.”

Malfoy said nothing, turning his broom to resume flying. It jerked underneath him and he cursed savagely.

“Want to ride double with me?” Harry couldn’t believe the words had come out of his mouth. Malfoy stiffened even more, his face shuttered.

“No,” he ground out immediately, then paused. “No…thank you.”

Harry almost laughed. It was killing Malfoy, owing Harry, being courteous when he wanted to hurl insults right and left. 

And there, on the darkened quidditch pitch, riding beside a fuming Draco Malfoy, Harry suddenly felt something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. 

He felt mischievous.

“How’s your mother?” he asked innocently.

“Fine.”

“How are you?”

“Fine.” The word was almost spat.

Harry leaned closer.

“How’s your father?”

“He’s in Azkaban, you moronic imbecile!” Malfoy thundered, and the broom swayed unsteadily under him. “Merlin’s saggy underpants but you’re dim! How do you think he is?”

This time Harry did laugh, so loudly that it rang out over the pitch.

“Tut, tut, Malfoy…what about courtesy?” he chortled. Really, he’d missed winding Draco Malfoy up. It felt terrific.

But then something happened that was so surprising that Harry almost fell off his broom.

“I apologize for my outburst,” Malfoy said tiredly. “I’d be in prison if it weren’t for you. So would my mother.”

Harry’s humor evaporated.

“Malfoy…” he said uncertainly. 

“Leave me alone, Potter,” Malfoy said, and there was no animosity in his voice, just weariness. “Please…just leave me alone.”

He canted his broom handle left and headed off into the darkness and Harry, stunned into silence, let him go.

_____________

That night Harry dreamed that he was in the Room of Requirement, flying over Feindfyre as he tried desperately to hold on to Malfoy’s slipping hand.

“Don’t drop me, Potter,” Malfoy shrieked.

Horrified, Harry felt the hand clutching his slide another inch. The floor below them flamed like a monstrous forge, throwing off scorching heat.

“Grab my other hand!” Harry shouted hoarsely, tightening his legs and leaning left as he flung his free hand down to Malfoy, who managed to clasp the tips of Harry’s fingers. But Harry felt, aghast, that the other boy’s hand was slick with perspiration too, and the hold didn’t take. Malfoy dangled, screaming. Harry gripped Malfoy’s remaining hand with all his might.

“Swing up onto the broom!” he yelled. But then a lash of fiendfyre whipped up against Malfoy’s legs, and his convulsive movement jiggled their clasped hands as Malfoy slipped lower and lower. A second later, Malfoy fell, and his tortured cry pierced Harry’s heart as plunged down, down, down into the flames.

“Malfoy!” Harry screamed. “Malfoy!”

“Harry!” Someone was shaking him. “Harry, wakeup mate! You’re having a nightmare!”

Harry opened his eyes to see Ron and Hermione staring at him in concern. The tip of Hermione’s wand glowed dimly in the darkened room.

“We could hear you all the way down in the Common Room,” Hermione said worriedly. She perched on one side of his bed and Ron took the other. Their hands were steady on his shoulders. 

“Are you alright?” Wordlessly, she handed him his glasses.

“I’m okay,” Harry said, gasping. He shoved his glasses on his nose, a grounding act. “Just….you know…nightmares. I’ll be okay.”

“You need to see Madame Pomfrey tomorrow, Harry,” Hermione said seriously, and Ron nodded. “She has to have a potion that will help…”

“I’ve tried everything, Hermione,” Harry shook his head tiredly. “You know that. Nothing helps.”

They sat in silence for a long while. Harry was enormously grateful for their company and their silence, these two friends who had weathered life’s darkest storms with him. But tomorrow was the first day of class, and they needed to sleep.

“I’ll be fine,” Harry said firmly, as Hermione pulled a yawning Ron reluctantly to his feet.

“You don’t have to do this alone, Harry,” Hermione said. “Come and get us if you need us. Both of our rooms are close by.”

“I will,” Harry promised. “And thanks.”

“Maybe you can sleep now, yeah?” said Ron hopefully. “Nightmare out of the way for tonight.”

“Maybe,” agreed Harry.

But he lay awake after the door clicked softly shut, and sleep never came.


End file.
